


Tear Me Up

by Josselin



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Character(s) Wanted It But Not Like This, Characters forced to have sex as entertainment of third party, Forced to rape victim to spare them from a worse fate, Fuck Or Die, Fuck or die where the victim would rather die, Hurt/Comfort but sort of not on the comfort part, M/M, Victim Forced to Rape Other Victim or Let Them Be Raped by Aggressor Instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 01:25:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15377643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josselin/pseuds/Josselin
Summary: “Three choices,” said the clan leader to Damen. He held up the first finger. “You--” he pointed his other hand at Damen and Laurent collectively “--die.” He held up the second finger. “We--” he pointed his other hand at himself and his men, circling it around the collected group, then pointing at Laurent, “--fuck.” He held up the third finger, and pointed at Laurent again. “You fuck.”





	Tear Me Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/gifts).



> For the prompt [here](https://l-cloudy.dreamwidth.org/1290.html#cp).

1.

The clan leader gave a sharp order and Laurent was restrained by two of the others. They held him, one on each side, with their grips on his arms. His arms were still tied behind his back, as Damen’s were. Laurent did not test their grip or duck or squirm. He stood, tolerating their touch, and waited.

The clan leader stepped closer. Laurent was braced for the blow and Damen was braced to see him receive it. The clan leader stepped again, and again. He was too close to hit Laurent. He was standing very close to Laurent. Laurent must have been able to feel the man’s breath on his cheek, and the clan leader slid his hand slowly down over Laurent’s body. 

His hand started on Laurent’s face, the back of his fingers brushing Laurent’s cheek, and then it dropped, brushing down Laurent’s chest. His hand lingered for a moment on the laces of Laurent’s jacket, as though considering them as a problem, and then trailed lower. The clan leader took a step back, and then walked around his man restraining Laurent, and stood behind Laurent. Laurent remained as still as he had when the man had been in front of him. Behind Laurent, the man trailed his fingers along Laurent’s body again, beginning with the back of his neck, and then moving down his back, past Laurent’s tied wrists, until he encountered curves. 

The clan leader said something, and Damen did not understand the words, but the tone was clear enough, and the laughter of his men was a response. The clan leader was clearly the type of man who took pleasure in the powerlessness of others. He walked around the other side of Laurent and stood in front of him again, and made another statement, this one directed at Laurent. 

Laurent made some reply, and the clan leader laughed even as he backhanded Laurent. It was a second blow like the first. Laurent couldn’t take a step back as he had the first time, since his arms were held by the two others, but his weight listed to the side against one of the men who was holding him before he stood upright again. 

Damen moved before he realized it. Laurent spoke the dialect of the clansmen. Laurent must have seen where this was going. Laurent had shaken his head at him, minutely, and yet Damen’s anger at being held captive and tied up while other men touched Laurent overcame his reason.

His struggle was short-lived. 

He was overcome by the sheer number of men that surrounded them, and the fact that they unsheathed knives and weapons while his hands were still tied, and he was pushed to the ground and several of them took out their aggression on him for a few moments until the clan leader said something that brought it to a halt. 

Damen was hauled, by two men gripping his arms as they had gripped Laurent earlier, and moved closer to the fire and the men holding Laurent.

Damen was let go, and thrown to the ground again, landing next to where Laurent was similarly pushed. Each of them struggled to get their feet underneath them. One of the men tossed some kind of linen sachet into the fire, and the sachet began to generate a sweet-smelling smoke as it burned. Damen blinked. He would have covered his mouth from the smoke if his hands had not been tied behind his back. Laurent coughed.

Damen had made it to his knees. Laurent was still curled up on the ground. The clan leader stood in front of them. The leader aimed a casual kick Laurent’s direction, and Damen moved in front of Laurent and the man’s boot hit his thigh, instead.

The clan leader said something to Laurent. The words were still too different from the High Vaskian that Damen knew for him to follow it, but from the intonation it was some kind of question. Do you want this choice, or that choice?

Laurent coughed again and said one word in response; it sounded like a negative.

The smoke was making Damen’s eyes feel gritty. The scent of it had something like the scent of the hakesh that Radel had put in the slave quarters prior to Damen’s match with Govart, but it was heavier, more pungent. A different herb in the same family, perhaps. Damen tried to breath as shallowly as possible, thinking that he would need all of his wits, speed, and strength for when they made their escape attempt.

The clan leader was displeased with Laurent’s response, and seemed to repeat the question more emphatically.

Laurent repeated the same negative again.

“What is he asking?” said Damen, in Veretian.

“No,” said Laurent.

The clan leader said something else Damen could not understand, though he guessed from the way the man pointed at himself, at Laurent, and at Damen that it was something like, “Tell him what I said.”

“I can’t understand this dialect,” said Damen.

Laurent, who clearly could understand the dialect and had translated for Damen earlier, said nothing. 

The clan leader kicked Laurent again, moving to a position where Damen couldn’t block the blow. Laurent continued to say nothing. 

The clan leader seemed to be giving Laurent three choices. He used three of his fingers to number them as he spoke, the way a small child in Akielos might practice counting.

Laurent’s eyes were alert. He had squirmed into a seated position. He met the clan leader’s gaze evenly, listening to the three choices. 

After the clan leader had finished speaking, Laurent spoke a single word again. 

The clan leader gestured to Damen. Laurent didn’t look Damen’s direction, but repeated the same response. This irked the clan leader, who seemingly wanted Laurent to explain before speaking on Damen’s behalf. 

The clan leader gave up on Laurent as a translator and turned to look at Damen directly. He spoke in heavily accented High Vaskian. “You understand?” 

“Yes,” said Damen, in the same language.

“Three choices,” said the clan leader, holding up the same three fingers he had shown to Laurent. He held up the first finger. “You--” he pointed his other hand at Damen and Laurent collectively “--die.” He held up the second finger. “We--” he pointed his other hand at himself and his men, circling it around the collected group, then pointing at Laurent, “--fuck.” He held up the third finger, and pointed at Laurent again. “You fuck.”

Laurent apparently also spoke High Vaskian. “No,” said Laurent. “Kill us.”

The clan leader looked to Damen, as though to say, you agree?

Damen shook his head. “I will fuck him,” he said. He shifted toward Laurent protectively. 

The clan leader smiled, slowly, smirking as he took in Damen’s answer. He turned back toward Laurent. 

“He’s a slave,” said Laurent to the clan leader. His tone conveyed that this meant that Damen’s opinion didn’t count.

“The slaves fucks the master,” said the clan leader, sounding lasciviously pleased by the notion.

“No,” said Laurent, as though the iron willed control he was exercising over his voice and his body could somehow extend to Damen and the other men in this camp as well.

Damen turned toward Laurent, and spoke in Akielon, thinking perhaps the language that they had practiced to give them privacy from eavesdroppers in Laurent’s camp would give them privacy from the Vaskians here. “We can escape this,” he told Laurent. “We need time.”

“No,” said Laurent, in Akielon. 

Did he have some other plan, Damen wondered. Yet Laurent was not forthcoming with the plan or any indication of how Damen should follow it if he had another plot to enact.

The clan leader gestured to one of his men, who approached Damen and cut the ropes binding his hands behind his back. Their circumstances were already improving, though there were enough men watching with their hands on their weapons to make escape futile in this moment. The man coughed from the smoke as he tossed the cut rope into the fire and moved back toward the others. 

“Make good show,” said the clan leader, as though he wanted to watch some kind of pet performance in the ring in Arles. “Or,” the clan leader held up his first finger again. “You die.”

Damen flexed his shoulders, stretching from how his arms had been bound, and turned his attention on Laurent.

"I don't want to do this," he said.

Laurent was seated with his wrists still bound, looking up at where Damen was kneeling next to him now with his hands free. "Then don't."

Damen wanted less to watch the other men take Laurent, or to die here, or both. He thought of the fields of his homeland, and of standing again in front of his people, and of confronting his brother. His eyes were filled with Laurent, next to him. “I won’t hurt you,” he told Laurent, still speaking Akielon.

Laurent made a dismissive noise. “Anyone but you,” said Laurent. “I could--” he didn’t finish.

Damen wondered if Laurent suspected the Vaskians were bluffing. "They are serious," said Damen. "Raiders kill along the border all the time; even women and children. They aren't thinking about a ransom or--"

"I don't doubt they'll kill us," said Laurent.

The clan leader said something impatient. 

Laurent was apparently now willing to translate, "He said, 'Get on with it.'"

Damen settled next to Laurent, moving cautiously and broadcasting his movements as he might have if he had known there was a snake in the grass, and Laurent watched him through heavy-lidded eyes and said nothing. 

Damen reached for Laurent’s clothing. Laurent shifted his weight to the side, away from Damen’s touch. “Don’t touch me,” said Laurent.

“I’ll be gentle,” said Damen, reaching for Laurent again. Laurent had overbalanced in his first attempt to avoid Damen’s hands, and he didn’t have any leverage to shift away from Damen’s reach a second time. 

“I’d rather die than have you touch me,” said Laurent. There was something in his tone that reminded Damen of Nicaise’s petulance. Looking at you is distasteful. 

If Laurent was refusing to cooperate with the plan, he was at least not actively struggling. Damen began to unlace Laurent's clothing, as though they were alone in Laurent's tent rather than outside, next to a fire, and surrounded by clansmen. 

The smoke was going to his head. Damen felt drunk and yet turned on, and it distracted him from the circumstances. He could almost imagine he were somewhere else--back at the coupling fires with Kashel, perhaps, with the same crackling of the fire and outdoor camp noises in the background. 

He looked up from his fingers on the laces of Laurent’s clothing to meet Laurent’s eyes. Laurent was watching him. Laurent’s pupils were large; the smoke was probably affecting him as well. Laurent’s mouth was slightly open, breathing through his lips, and when Damen looked at him closely he seemed to be trembling very slightly.

Damen hesitated, once Laurent’s clothing was loosened. When they were alone, in Laurent’s tent, this was when Laurent dismissed him to his bedroll and shed the remainder of his clothes himself. Laurent met his eyes defiantly and his hands were still tied, that was not going to happen here. 

Damen started to wonder how it was best to proceed. Would Laurent prefer to use his mouth? Or should Damen--? “Do you--” said Damen.

“I hate you,” said Laurent.

“--prefer to--” Damen did not know how to finish.

“You will think fondly of the first time I had you on the cross,” said Laurent. “Because the next time I will not be so lenient--”

“I am trying--” said Damen.

They were each talking over the other, and their audience was becoming impatient. The clansmen were jeering, and laughing at the revelation of Laurent’s skin beneath his laced up riding garments. One of them shouted a suggestion of some kind at him, and Laurent turned his head to glare witheringly in that direction, and the other clansmen laughed. Another voice chimed in with a second idea, and Laurent did not even bother to look, steeling his gaze and returning his attention to Damen.

Damen waited for him to translate, and he did not. 

The clan leader had his own suggestion, and provided it in High Vaskian so both of them could understand. “Mouth,” he shouted. 

Damen placed his hand on Laurent’s face, cupping his jaw. Laurent’s jaw was locked. He was breathing through his nose and wasn’t opening his mouth now even to speak. 

Damen pressed the pad of his thumb on Laurent’s lower lip. “Open,” he said, pressing gently.

Laurent’s eyes met his, and they were venomous. 

Damen unlaced his own trousers with one hand, keeping the other on Laurent’s face. 

Laurent’s skin was soft, and Damen could feel the line of fine stubble along his jaw, and the smoother skin of his cheek. He cupped his hand around Laurent’s jaw and pressed his thumb again on Laurent’s mouth. Laurent’s cheeks were flushed. In a different world, he might have been a slave on his first night, looking up at Damen through his eyelashes, his eyes bright and his lips wet.

Damen could press Laurent’s lip down, exposing his teeth, but Laurent kept his jaw clenched. 

The clansmen were full of suggestions, their shouting blending in Damen’s ears with the noise of the fire and the camp. Laurent was not volunteering to translate. 

Damen felt drunk and sentimental. “I wish I could have courted you properly,” he said, imagining. It might have been different in another world, how he and Laurent had met. What they said to one another. He might have wooed Laurent and come to this moment very differently.

Laurent opened his mouth, and the way his eyes flashed indicated he was going to say something brutal. Damen did not give him a chance, though, sliding his thumb into Laurent’s mouth and resting it on his tongue.

Laurent closed his mouth around Damen’s finger, resting his teeth on Damen’s thumb warningly. Their eyes met. It seemed to Damen as though he could see Laurent thinking about biting him. 

“I would have courted you as you deserved,” said Damen, half of his mind still lost in the haze of smoke and his thoughts of how it might have been in another world. Laurent let go with his teeth. Once Laurent did part his lips for Damen’s fingers, it was only a short while before Damen coaxed him to open wider and fed Laurent his cock. 

Damen had one hand balanced on Laurent’s shoulder and the other resting on the back of his head. Touching Laurent’s hair felt transgressive, somehow, yet his hand clenched in it reflexively. 

Laurent’s eyelashes fluttered shut. Damen could see the bulge of his cheek, and seeing that felt transgressive as well. 

There was a long moment where neither of them moved. Damen tried not to enjoy the warm heat of Laurent’s mouth too much. Laurent’s eyes were still closed, though Damen watched them. He wanted to meet Laurent’s eyes, to try to read his cues from Laurent, to make a plan for how to approach this together that they could then execute like any of Laurent’s other madcap schemes. Instead, Laurent was frozen like a stag at the sound of a hunting horn, trembling in the field for a long moment before beginning to run. 

Damen wondered if he would have to guide Laurent with his hands, and he had waited just long enough that he thought he would, and then Laurent blinked his eyes open. In the firelight they were almost all pupil, with only a tiny rim of blue. Their gazes held for another moment, and then Laurent began, without prompting from Damen’s hands, to move.

Laurent’s technique was practiced. It was what Damen would have expected from the lecture on cocksucking that Laurent had delivered to Ancel in the garden at Arles, and nothing like what Damen would have expected from how earring-wearing Laurent had leaned in to him in the inn in Nesson-Eloy. Laurent had the style of an older slave who has learned well what a certain master likes and used the same techniques with another man with only half of his attention. 

Damen had thought, when he had coaxed Laurent’s mouth open with his thumb and soft words encouraging Laurent, that perhaps this would be enough. Perhaps there would be a rescue over the ridge at any moment. Perhaps the men would be momentarily distracted, and their moment would come. Perhaps they would lose interest in their prisoners for a bit and become occupied in some internal quarrel. Any of these things might change the odds of their escape. Damen was not certain whether he was doing Laurent a favor by holding on and drawing it out as a distraction, or by letting go and finishing.

The smoke was making it easy to forget where he was. He blinked and the hair beneath his fingers was brown for a moment and he was back in Ios, with the sound of the sea hitting the cliffs outside the window. Then he opened his eyes and he was in the camp again, surrounded by men with their hands still resting on their weapons, and Laurent in front of him. Laurent’s lips were red; his eyes were dark. His breathing was uneven. His jacket was awry from how Damen had unlaced him earlier, and Damen could see one of his nipples, pebbled from sensation. Damen groaned.

2\. 

Damen tightened his fingers in Laurent’s hair and pulled him off. Laurent lifted his head for a moment, catching his breath. Damen’s taste was in his mouth, his scent surrounded Laurent. Laurent took a breath, and the smoke of the fire overwhelmed him again, making his head spin, and he coughed, and Damen made a considerate noise. 

The clansmen shouted various suggestions. Damen couldn’t understand their dialect, but Laurent could make out most of it. They had started with ideas of how Damen could strip them both for the viewing pleasure of the audience, and then had various suggestions of how Laurent should suck him and use his mouth, with even more crude ideas included. One viewer shouted that Laurent should bite Damen, presumably as a joke or thinking of the drama that might ensue.

Someone shouted, “Make him take all of it,” just as Damen pushed back into Laurent’s mouth. Laurent blinked, and swallowed reflexively, and Damen ended up deeper in his mouth than he had before, as though he were listening to the audience and taking their commands. There were appreciative shouts from whoever had suggested this as they saw Damen take their idea.

Laurent’s eyes watered. He blinked to clear them. It was the smoke, he told himself. The proximity to the fire and the smoke from the herbs were irritating his eyes. He blinked again, and the liquid spilled over and trailed down his cheek. Damen still had his hand on Laurent’s face, guiding his head, and he brushed the tear away with his thumb. “Shh.” The touch of his finger on Laurent’s face was gentle, tender. Laurent thought about killing him. It was intolerable that Damen was here. Laurent might have been able to manage the clan leader, and his men shouting suggestions at him. It was Damen who made this--

Damen pulled out again, courteously, letting Laurent breathe for a moment with his hand still on Laurent’s face.

The clansmen began a chant: Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him. Damen could likely not understand their words. But some of them were miming what they expected crudely, and it would be hard for him to misunderstand that. 

Laurent had his eyes partly closed because of the smoke. He watched through his lashes as Damen changed positions. Damen seemed to be listening to the shouts. 

“Laurent,” he even dared to use Laurent’s name without a title. “I am going to--” Did the man think that speaking of it before he acted somehow made it better? Except he was such an Akielon prude that he couldn’t even form the words.

Laurent said it back to him just to show that he could say the words without hesitating. “You are going to fuck me,” he said.

“Yes,” said Damen, sounding grateful. “Do not worry.”

Laurent was not worried; he was furious. He glared at Damen while the man repositioned them, and made no offer to help. Damen turned Laurent over. Laurent’s hands were still tied behind his back, so when he was placed on his front his face and shoulders were pressed against the dirt and he couldn’t get his knees underneath him to maneuver.

Damen pulled Laurent’s pants down to his knees, where his boots were in the way, and then he placed his hands on Laurent’s hips, positioning them.

The noise of their surroundings faded, for Laurent. His breath came more quickly, and while he did not usually bother to try to fight battles that he knew he could not win, he suddenly could no longer stop himself. He struggled, squirming away from Damen, pulling himself closer to the fire instead, trying to inch along the ground with whatever traction he could get from scrambling with his legs.

Damen grasped his hips tightly enough to bruise and pulled him back away from the fire and across the small patch of ground Laurent had gained easily.

Damen made a shushing noise like a nurse might to a squalling infant. “It will be fine,” he told Laurent, his voice pitched for reassurance. 

“I will kill you,” said Laurent.

“At least you will be alive to do that,” said Damen. 

Laurent couldn’t listen. He twisted helplessly underneath Damen. There was something liberating about knowing that no matter how much he tried, he was not going to move Damen. 

“Calm yourself,” said Damen. “Don’t make it worse.”

Damen was implacable. Damen had fought against Auguste, and won, when Auguste had been much better prepared for battle. Even drugged with hakesh like they were now, Damen had fought Govart and emerged victorious. There was no hope that Laurent would win against someone so much bigger and stronger, not when there were two dozen clansmen looking on and shouting, the fire right next to them, Laurent’s hands were tied behind his back, and he was hobbled by his own pants.

Laurent could feel Damen’s cock against his backside, now. He squirmed with a final burst of enthusiasm and only managed to press his face uncomfortably into the dirt. Damen removed one of his hands from Laurent’s hip and Laurent could feel it brushing against his entrance. 

The smoke was getting to Laurent. He felt dizzy, and the ground beneath him felt as unsteady as a ship on the waves even when his eyes were closed. He was too warm and his skin felt uncomfortable. His blood had pooled in his cock and he was trying not to think of it. His ribs hurt from where he’d been kicked earlier, and he had a bruise on his cheekbone from a blow from the clan leader that was pressing into the ground uncomfortably in this position. 

The intrusion of Damen’s fingers was trivial among all of the things that Laurent was enduring, and yet he could think of nothing else. The gall of him, to touch Laurent like that. To dare to put his fingers there, first one, and then two of them pressing inside. 

There was still a chant among the crowd, demanding that Damen fuck him, mingled with other suggestions of how Damen ought to do it. Hard. Fast. Rough. On his front. Flip him over. 

Damen’s voice joined the other suggestions, though his tone was different. Approving. “That’s good,” he said. “Open up for me.”

Laurent tried to squeeze his legs together contrarily. 

Damen made a disappointed noise, and shifted behind Laurent to separate his thighs again easily.

“You can take three fingers now,” said Damen, following his words with the action, and Laurent whimpered.

The clan leader shouted from his seated position on the edge of the circle. “He is ready,” he told Damen, who of course could not understand the words. “Take him now.”

Damen shifted positions behind Laurent, and one of his hands brushed where Laurent’s hands were bound behind his back. Laurent clutched at it, reflexively. He might have clutched at anything in reach, he told himself, but Damen squeezed his fingers reassuringly and then continued positioning himself.

Laurent could feel him pressing inside.

The first press inside wasn’t violent. It was slow and methodical and inexorable, and Damen had used his fingers to part Laurent to press his cock past the initial resistance and smoothly inside. Laurent could feel the sensation of it entering him, and breaching his hole and pressing within, and then the depth and fullness of the penetration. It might have been better if it had been violent, he thought. If it had hurt sharply and he could have focused his mind on the pain. This way, it was too tolerable, too easy to imagine he might be somewhere else--he panicked.

“Stop,” Laurent said. “Don’t.” He tried to buck away from Damen, to shift away closer to the fire, to turn and make himself less accessible. He tried to kick at Damen, but his legs were all caught up in his half-removed clothing. 

He only succeeded in causing Damen to tighten the grip of his hands and to lean over Laurent to settle him with more weight. “Stop struggling,” said Damen. Damen had caged Laurent in with his body and his hands and seemed to be waiting for Laurent’s struggles to cease like a parent might wait for a child having a tantrum to exhaust themselves.

It did not take long before Laurent stopped trying to move and lay there, breathing heavily. His eyes were wet again. 

“That’s better,” Damen said, adjusting the position of Laurent’s thigh to give himself better access.

“You’re just like him,” said Laurent. 

Damen ignored him.

“I knew that you were. I knew from when I first saw you in that ridiculous collar--”

“Don’t talk,” said Damen. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Laurent did know what he was saying, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop the words from coming out in short breaths interspersed with hiccoughs. “I saw how you looked at me, how you reached for me. You’re just as bad as he is except you don’t even know anything--”

Damen reached one hand away around Laurent’s body to grasp his cock. Laurent broke off his words with a cry. Damen’s touch made him realize how turned on he had become, from the smoke heavy in his nostrils and from the feeling of Damen’s touch on his skin. He liked this touch of Damen’s even less. “No,” he said, and hated how pathetic his own voice sounded.

“I will make it good for you,” said Damen in Laurent’s ear, stroking him, as though that were some kind of reward he was promising and not the ultimate humiliation.

“I wish I were dead. I wish it had been the entire clan, one after another,” said Laurent. “I wish it were anyone but you.”

Damen did not seem to be paying attention to the mumble of Laurent’s words, instead focused on the tremors of Laurent’s body as he touched him. He had seen that Laurent responded most to a slow, gentle stroke, and was repeating that gesture even though it made no sense for the context they were in or the jeering suggestions their audience kept offering.

“The whole Prince’s Guard. The entire court in Arles,” said Laurent. “Torveld. That traitor Guion. Govart. Him, again, even.” Damen brushed his thumb over the tip of Laurent’s cock and Laurent shuddered. His thoughts were muddled. He could smell nothing but Damen’s scent and the smoke. His lungs ached. His shoulders ached from their position and Damen’s weight. His cock ached, desperate for release. 

“The Kyros of Delfeur and all of his generals,” Laurent continued. Laurent’s hips were betraying him; restlessly seeking to thrust forward against Damen’s hand and then shift backward against the sensation of Damen’s cock deep within him. “Your bastard half-brother. All of them one after another--” Laurent’s words broke off as sensation overcame him. 

It was too much. The drugs, how exhausted he was, everything that he felt, Damen’s cock still deep inside of him and Damen’s unrelenting stroking of his cock. He finished, weakly, and Damen’s hand stroked him through it. “That’s good,” Damen said in his ear. “Just relax.”

Laurent moaned, and closed his eyes. His own climax turned more of his attention to the feeling of Damen’s cock within him, and Damen was clearly shifting his attention that way as well. The gentle rocking of their bodies that had accompanied his attentiveness to Laurent’s pleasure became more forceful as he thrust more vigorously, seeking his own end.

Laurent let himself take a small joy from the sparks the strokes caused inside of him and the way he enjoyed Damen’s weight. Nothing mattered, now. It could not be any worse. He felt thoroughly conquered, speared repeatedly by another man’s cock in front of enough witnesses that he could not practically dispose of them all. There was nothing left to take from him. 

After Damen was finished, the rest of the men would probably have him as well. They had no reason to honor their bargain with Damen and every reason to ignore it. Damen would be angry, but that would only give them an excuse to kill him so he did not interrupt their pleasure with Laurent. 

Laurent would be able to do nothing in the struggle, and there were enough men with notched arrows and swords that Damen would bleed out next to him. Laurent would be here, lying next to the fire, with Damen’s seed still inside of him and the man himself dead next to him, while any of the other men did whatever they wished. Laurent felt a pang of nonsensical grief for what was likely to happen to Damen, even as he could feel Damen thrusting inside of him, and a sound escaped his mouth. 

Damen thrust with less coordination, behind him, and mumbling his own words in Akielon, ramblings about sentiment and how he might have behaved in a mythical world where neither of them were who they were. Laurent could feel the warmth of Damen’s seed spilling inside of him, and then the wetness of it against his skin as Damen withdrew, his weight still heavily braced on Laurent. 

Of course that was when the raiders arrived. It was rather late for Laurent’s preferences, but he was in no position to do anything about it. This was likely not what Halvik had had in mind when she had told Laurent, “You create a distraction.” Or perhaps it was exactly what she had had in mind, given the way she had eyed Damen and asked about what it was that Laurent did with such a large slave. With Halvik it was impossible to tell.

3.

The raiders took the clan with no warning. One of the men watching Damen and Laurent near the fire looked down in shock to see an arrow protruding from his chest. Another arrow landed suddenly in the dirt near to where Damen and Laurent were positioned, and then the riders were upon the camp and the men were all reaching for their weapons.

Damen and Laurent were separated in the fighting. Damen had the advantage of having his hands free, and dispatched one of the men who had shouted the crudest suggestions at him and took his weapon, and then found himself occupied in the heat of the fighting. 

When he had dealt with his opponents, he turned to look around. He found Laurent off by one of the tents, searching for a way to untie his hands. Laurent had managed to pull his pants up and get to his feet, and was trying to use a knife to free himself awkwardly. 

Damen came up behind him, emerged from cover, and then took a firm hold on Laurent’s shoulder and spun him to sever the ropes on Laurent’s hands with his own knife. Laurent had a moment to make a pained expression as he flexed his shoulders and his hands in their new freedom, and then the fighting was upon them again. Damen handed Laurent the hilt of the second weapon he had managed to acquire.

Laurent did an admirable share of the fighting, given the state his arms must have been in after having been tied for so long, and there was no time to talk in between the end of the fighting, Halvik’s arrival, and Laurent’s conversations with her. 

The next time they were alone together was in a tiny tent. Damen had washed and been dressed by Halvik’s women in a loincloth; Laurent had also washed, though his clothing was more substantial. When they were both in the tent, there was room for perhaps a finger-sized amount of space between them.

They stared at each other in the lamplight. “Halvik has adhered to her side of the bargain,” said Laurent. “She gets the prisoners, but we will be able to use them at Ravenel to expose my uncle’s double-dealings.”

“The bargain,” said Damen.

Laurent looked at him evenly.

“You planned this,” said Damen. He did not know why he was surprised. Of course Laurent had planned this. “You arranged the counterattack with the women ahead of time, and then came out here as bait to draw out the men.”

It was not a question. Laurent nodded anyway. His movement was simple, as though to say, Why did you doubt it?

“If you knew that we were going to be rescued--” said Damen, “Then why did you--”

“That’s enough,” said Laurent, cutting off Damen’s questioning with the same firm denials he’d used when they had first met.

“Are we not going to talk about it?” said Damen.

Laurent looked back at him across the tent. In the lamplight, the bruise on his cheekbone might have just have been a shadow. His hair was clean and combed and neatly parted. His linen garments were pale like his skin. His voice was clear and free from the lingering smoke of the campfires.

“There is nothing to talk about.”


End file.
